


Ssssex

by IsabellElle (sabeea)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First time writing, Lemon, M/M, PWP, first time fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:16:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5642248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabeea/pseuds/IsabellElle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I find myself in the inconvenient position of having to satisfy my bodily urges in order to make the most of my brainwork. Sexual urges included.”<br/>John sighed. “Why me?” he half-muttered to himself, but Sherlock took it as a serious question. Of course.<br/>“Because, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I am socially awkward in situations in which sexual needs could be fulfilled. You’re aware of this, and yet you continue to put up with my presence. As my flatmate, you are also conveniently geographically close. I know that your STD panel is clean – “</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ssssex

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle with me, this is the first time I've written anything this explicit

As far as John was concerned, it came out of nowhere. When he’d struggled back into the flat with groceries four hours ago, Sherlock had been sitting in his armchair, fingers steepled and frowning slightly. He hadn’t responded to John’s arrival or questions, and hadn’t moved a muscle since. John assumed that he was in his mind palace, and took advantage of the peace and quiet to catch up on his blog. When Sherlock inhaled deeply, like he always did before speaking, John was almost startled. But it was nothing next to what Sherlock said next.  
  
“Would you be willing to have sexual intercourse with me?”  
  
John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
Sherlock’s expression could best be described as puzzled. “What? Not good?”

“Bit not good, yeah,” John said. “Is this a hypothetical question?” Please let it be a hypothetical question, he thought.

Sherlock frowned. “Not really. I find myself in the inconvenient position of having to satisfy my bodily urges in order to make the most of my brainwork. Sexual urges included.”

John sighed. “Why me?” he half-muttered to himself, but Sherlock took it as a serious question. Of course.

“Because, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I am socially awkward in situations in which sexual needs could be fulfilled. You’re aware of this, and yet you continue to put up with my presence. As my flatmate, you are also conveniently geographically close. I know that your STD panel is clean – “

“Stop. Please just stop,” John said. His face was as red as Sherlock had ever seen it. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut. After a few false starts, John spoke again. “How do you know the results of my STD panel?”

A flick of Sherlock’s fingers. Not the right question. “I ran it as an experiment a few weeks ago – well after your last date.”

John rubbed his forehead. “I’m not gay, you know,” he said finally.

Sherlock smiled. It was his I-know-more-than-you-do smile – that is to say, his normal expression. “Mm. I’d say bisexual, at least periodically homoromantic. Don’t feel you have to label it. But you enjoyed relationships with men during your deployment.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not relationships!” John clapped his hand over his mouth, then started again. “I mean – why are we discussing this?” As Sherlock started to answer, he held up a finger. “Why can’t your . . . sexual urges . . . be dealt with through, you know…” He trailed off, only to see Sherlock’s bemused expression. He didn’t know. John made a vague gesture. “Wanking.”

The frown lines appeared between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “Wanking?”

“Yeah, you know. Masturbation.”

Comprehension dawned on Sherlock’s face. “Oh, I see. Yes. Well, I never have, and I’ve heard that sexual intercourse can be more satisfying.”

John winced. “You can just call it sex.”

“Sssex,” said Sherlock, as though testing out the word. He looked perfectly at ease. “So will you engage in sex with me?” He looked at John expectantly.

John rubbed his forehead. After a moment, he looked up at Sherlock again. “Just sex?”

Sherlock nodded. “Most likely an isolated incident,” he said.

“It won’t change . . . this?” John gestured between the two of them. Sherlock nodded again. “Ok.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock sprang to his feet – surprisingly quickly, John thought, for someone who had just been sitting perfectly still for four hours – and swept through the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom. John was somewhat shell-shocked. Sherlock’s head appeared around the doorway to the kitchen. “Coming?” he asked. John nodded mutely and followed.

John wasn’t sure what, exactly, to expect. From the conversation they had just had, he gathered that Sherlock was a virgin, and given that he usually didn’t engage in human interaction if it could be helped, he had no data to from which to extrapolate expectations. (Sherlock would be proud, he thought.)

When he got to the bedroom, Sherlock was sitting on the bed taking off his socks. As the detective looked up and made eye contact, John had a moment of anxiety.

“Do you mind if I shower first?” he asked. “I need a moment.”

“A moment by yourself, or a moment of preparation?” Sherlock asked.

“Uh. Preparation, I suppose you could say,” John stuttered. Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. He nodded.

John nearly tripped over his own feet on the way to the bathroom. He had gotten the water to the right temperature and all but his shorts off when he noticed Sherlock standing in the doorway. Nude.

A rather girly scream may have escaped his lips. Sherlock merely looked intrigued.

“Is this part of the arousal process, being extremely nervous?” he asked.

“Sometimes – but mostly you startled me, you bloody git,” John said, trying to get his heartbeat back to a normal rate. “Why are you standing there?”

Sherlock shrugged, the movement looking graceful on his long body. “I thought I might join you,” he said. “Isn’t it normal to engage in some kind of foreplay?” He pronounced the word as though it were foreign. It probably was, to him. When it became clear that John was at a loss for words, he stepped forward. “Don’t be self-conscious.” This brought a snort from John, but he dropped his shorts and stepped into the shower.

As the hot water streamed over his shoulders, John felt his muscles relax a bit. He poked his head around the curtain. “I thought you said you were joining me?” Sherlock smiled, a real genuine smile, and did so.

John still wasn’t sure what to expect, but Sherlock had apparently done some research on foreplay. He poured soap from the bottle and began to rub it into John’s back. John exhaled, relaxing even more. He didn’t even mind as Sherlock’s hands moved lower, massaging his arse cheeks and crack.

Sherlock’s chin rested on his shoulder as he rubbed soap into his thighs. “Is this all right, John?” he asked. John exhaled slowly. Nodded, because he didn’t trust his voice at the moment. For all of his reluctance earlier, he actually found his flatmate a very attractive man – objectively, of course. Sherlock’s hands guided him as he turned around. He let his own hands drift up to Sherlock’s chest, across wiry muscles tight against the ribs. One hand made its way up to the detective’s neck, and held tightly as Sherlock inclined his head. His eyebrows were raised in a wordless question, and John nodded and closed the distance between their lips.

It was different, kissing a man. It had been years, and John had forgotten how much he liked it. No greasy makeup, just the scent of Sherlock, which he knew so well. John closed his eyes and let himself be in the moment, feeling Sherlock’s lips on his, Sherlock’s hands on his back and arse, Sherlock’s half-erect cock on his thigh, Sherlock’s thigh on his own cock. His eyes flew open, and John pulled away. Sherlock looked at him, confused, lips swollen a bit. John pinched himself. Yes, he was standing in a shower with a naked Sherlock Holmes. He reached up for Sherlock’s lips again, muffling the half-formed question that he knew was about to emerge.

John was never really sure, after, how they got to the bed. He had flashes of Sherlock pushing him under the showerhead to rinse off the suds, toweling each other’s hair, pulling his flatmate into the bedroom. All this was between heated kisses, or interrupting one long kiss. Somehow, John ended up flat on his back beneath his friend, and his hands were trying to be everywhere at once. Between the bathroom and the bedroom, their cocks had both risen to attention – in fact, John couldn’t remember ever being this aroused in his life. (Sherlock had very talented fingers and could apparently deduce John’s erogenous zones as easily as a crime scene.)

“Turn over,” Sherlock urged him, and John obeyed, despite the loss of Sherlock’s lips on his. He bit the pillow as Sherlock brushed his balls and dexterously seized a bottle of lube at the same time. Despite the pillow, John’s groan was audible when a finger slipped into his hole, and turned into a string of profanities when the finger crooked just enough to hit his prostate.

“Christ, Sherlock,” he gasped when the finger was removed. He lifted his head to see Sherlock smirking as he rolled a condom onto his shaft.

“Still all right with you, John?” Sherlock murmured when he was done, bending to kiss John’s neck just below the ear.

“Yes,” John said emphatically, raising his hips to prove it.

“Good.” Sherlock’s tongue brushed his ear, and then John felt himself being filled, stretched, made whole. When he gasped, Sherlock waited, and when his breathing returned to something approaching normal, rocked his hips forward. It was exactly right. Sherlock’s cock hit the prostate, and John found himself pushing back and up. The eloquence which he had come to expect from the detective was apparently gone, and Sherlock gasped out “so tight . . . God, John . . . oh god…” before dissolving into a wordless moan.

As amazing as it felt, John soon needed to touch himself, and this was succeeded by the prickly sensation that told him he was almost there. “Sherlock?” he warned, and Sherlock responded by squeezing his hips and emitting a vaguely affirmative sound. Just when John didn’t think he could take any more, Sherlock’s cock twitched inside of him, and John could feel liquid warmth spurt into a depth he didn’t know he had. Almost simultaneously, John exploded. At least, that’s what it felt like. He saw white and collapsed under his own weight and that of Sherlock.

Sherlock extricated himself with a low groan, removed and tied off the condom, and flung it in the direction of the bin. Breathing heavily, they lay there; the detective and his blogger.


End file.
